


Thief Of Many Faces

by Giggles96



Series: Amputee Will and Daddy Hannibal [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Amputation, Captivity, Daddy Kink, Disturbing Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Forced Infantalism, Frustration, Gen, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, Kidnapping, Non-Sexual Age Play, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4795379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giggles96/pseuds/Giggles96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will finds himself in a tricky situation. The chance to escape is his to take, but will he seize the moment?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thief Of Many Faces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elle82](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle82/gifts).



> I’m dedicating this one to another favourite non-sexual ageplay author of mine, Elle82, whose stories I absolutely adore. Thank-you for being so wonderful and awesome!
> 
> This one is probably all kinds of awful, but I ended up writing it anyway, because all of my other drafts for chapters are on my memory stick which I don’t have at the moment, and I wanted to write…so this happened.
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> _Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language. ___

  
**THIEF OF MANY FACES**

_Fairytales do not tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairytales tell children that dragons can be killed._

G. K. Chesterson

  
“Do you know where you are, Will?”

Radiant rays of sunlight trickle onto the bare desk.

Stark walls, single exit, infinite mirror, and bottomless blue eyes bleeding into his through another Will, pasty and pure, staring right back at him.

They dressed him in a baggy sweatshirt, pulled it right over his head, and wrestled his arms into too-long sleeves that flowed way beyond his clumsy hands. He keeps pushing them up and they keep falling down, and eventually he gives up, because it doesn’t matter, anyhow.

 _Silly Will,_ he imagines them giggling. _Silly Goose. Couldn’t even dress himself. What a waste of space._

Gentle pats on the back were offered, someone kept petting his hair, small smiles and kind words were doled out in abundance, and a thin blanket was flung over his shoulders. _To keep you warm,_ they said.

Nobody mentioned the clean diaper.

A squashy cushion has been stuffed underneath his small frame - after they caught his wince as the hard surface of the chair stretched the tender, grafted skin of his stumps each time he squirmed, and, boy, does he squirm - and food has been served. They’ve been so horrifically thoughtful.

“Will?” a soft voice yanks him back to the present, “Will, do you know where you are?”

Scrubbing his mouth and giving a jerky nod, he mumbles, “’BI.”

“That’s right,” Alana smiles, tone approving. There’s a brief bout of silence before she indicates the small tray of canteen fare between them, nudging it forward. “Aren’t you hungry? You can have some, if you want. It‘s okay.”

Juicy segments of orange, slippery banana slices, a limp chicken sandwich cut in half, blackcurrant juice box with beads of condensation dribbling down one side. None of it looks appetising, and he feels bad. His tummy twists into painful knots and his head pounds.

Regardless of the plain attempt to cater to him, he doesn’t want it. Doesn’t _want_ this. He wants to go home. Wants his Daddy back.

Will huddles up, clutches his forearms, rocks back and forth…back and forth…back and forth.

“No, no th-thank-you,” he stutters out, teeth clattering.

He doesn’t forget his Big Boy manners Daddy drilled into him. He‘ll puke out gratitude, even if it chokes him.

_Please and thank-you. Please and thank-you. Please can I go - Please may I go home - please and thank-you - pleaseandthankyoupleaseandthankyou-_

“You sure? I can get you something else.”

Does he admit he’s not sure if he can feed himself? Does he tell her he can’t always make the food go into his mouth? Not without making a huge mess? Would she laugh at him? She doesn’t seem like the laughing type. Call him a baby? Sometimes he thinks he might be a baby, by the way he can do so little for himself-

_‘Such a silly, messy boy. Look at this mess._

_Who’s my messy baby boy? Who’s Daddy’s silly, baby boy, who made such a big mess?’_

_‘Me, Daddy. I am. Me.’_

-Will shifts in place. “Not ‘ungry.”

“Yeah…” Alana knows when to back off, “Yeah, okay. We‘ll try again later. How does that sound?”

He manages another nod.

His skin is tight, so tight it feels like it’s suffocating itself, and he’d lick his lips, but he’s afraid of the barbed wire that pierces his tongue, posed and waiting to strike at the first sign of weakness. One wrong move and chunks of flesh will be ripped away and chewed up, and streams of blood and lumps of his gums and half-masticated tissue will clog up his throat.

A single misspoken word could tear him apart.

He has to watch himself.

“You’ve been missing for a very long time, Will.”

Everything has a strange, dream-like quality to it, but he’s not deluded enough to think he’s dreaming.

He might be deluded enough to believe he’s awake.

“Do you remember anything about when you were taken? Do you remember the Bad Man? The one that took you? What can you tell me about him?”

_Are you going to be a good boy, Will? Are you?_

_I hope you’re not trying to get Daddy in trouble. He only ever wants what’s best for you._

“Will…? Will, eyes up here. That’s great, you‘re doing great. Keep going. Let’s focus.”

“Wanna…” His breath hitches, fresh tears spill over his cheeks. “Wanna go home.”

“Soon,” Alana soothes, “But first, would it be okay if I ask you a few questions? It won’t take long, I promise-”

Where is home, Will? Can you tell me what it‘s like? Was it…far away? Or really close? Did you travel for more than ten minutes? Less than an hour or over an hour? Were there other buildings nearby, like in a city? Or did you see lots of trees? Which is it?

“-H-home.”

Will sniffs hard and drags his fingers over his chin, nails digging into baby-smooth skin. No prickly stubble, not a single hair in sight. No friction to chafe against, nothing to impede his path.

It makes him feel so awfully, achingly young. Like his eyes are too large for his face - too wide, too innocent. A helpless baby bird in need of rescuing.

Daddy shaved him once, in the beginning. But Will didn’t like it; he cowered every time the razor skimmed his throat and made it very difficult.

Daddy had complained and said he couldn’t be his sweet, darling boy with all the yucky hair burying his precious face, so he smeared this tingly cream all over Will‘s skin, right down his neck and through the soft tresses of his chest and down lower into his private parts. One by one, the hairs fluttered to the ground.

They never grew back again.

“I understand it’s scary and confusing right now, sweetie,” Alana says gently, and her face is all scrunched up, “But I really need you to concentrate for me. Can you do that? We‘ll take it easy. You can let me know if it gets too much for you.”

He wavers, warily nods, mangles the shapeless front of his sweatshirt between his hands.

“Tell me…what’s your _favourite_ thing about home? What did you like about it? Was there anything you didn’t like?”

“Like…” Will smothers the quivering of his lips before it becomes a problem again. “Liked outside.”

“Outside?” By the tiny jump in her tone, he can tell he’s surprised her. “Did you go outside often?”

“Daddy take me when my - when my chest hurt.”

“Your chest? Why did it hurt, Will? Tell me more about that.”

This time, he can’t contain his hiccup. “Got h-hard to b-breathe and my eyes…they were covered in bandages with the bad pictures drawn on the insides, but I - I didn’t draw them. Not after…,” he trails off, shaking his head as his brows clench, “My chest would…it really hurt. And my hands stopped working and I couldn’t feel ‘em right, so we go outside, because there, the air never ran out, and it was so bright, the bandages fell off and the bad pictures were burned away.”

“Uh-huh.” She discreetly makes a note in her thick pad. “And who put the bandages on, Will?”

“Nobody. They came on their own, t-to tell me stuff, or stop me from…from seeing things. But I didn’t like ‘em, ‘cause I couldn’t hear very well and it always got so dark.” He glances down and twiddles his thumbs. “I don’t like the dark.” And blood soaks into bandages so remarkably quickly.

“So…they protected you?” Alana deduces. “From what, Will? What didn’t they want you to see?”

“Where it came from.”

“Where…what came from?”

He squeezes his eyes shut.

“The food.”

**…**

Alana is gone for a very long time. When she returns, her eyes are red and puffy, and he can smell something off about her. It reminds him of vomit.

“Hi, sweetie,” she greets, taking her seat, “I’m sorry I was away for so long. What have you been up to?”

“Playin’.” They gave him a box from the lost and found, and he found a few bits and pieces of interest. Mostly he’s been hugging a scraggly, worn teddy bear and shrouding a bushy-haired Barbie in a sticky cocoon, binding her in layer after layer of lucent tape.

“Yeah?” Alana eyes his discoveries curiously. “What kind of playing? Can I join in?”

“If you want,” he half-shrugs. Then, indicating the lone doll on his right, Will warns, “But you have to leave her alone. We‘re not supposed to touch her.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“She wasn’t very nice to the others,” he explains. “She had to go to sleep.”

“…I see.” Fighting the impulse to frown, Alana decides a change of subject is in order. “I got you some crayons,” she announces, rummaging inside her handbag for the small set. Giving the packet a light shake that attracts Will‘s attention, she hands them over with a crooked smile and tears of a sheet of paper from her pad. “Have you used crayons before?”

“Lots.”

“You have? Oh - well, that‘s great then.” She forces herself to stop wringing her hands. “Would you mind drawing something for me? Anything you like. Go on. Have fun with it.”

Peeping over at her uncertainly and waiting for Alana to give him the go-ahead, Will slowly extracts the thin sticks and inhales the bright, familiar scent, smiling shyly.

From the page first emerges dark, ominous lines, a terrible, cold slash, then…colour.

Vivid eruptions of colour that stain the page first with red, then green, blue, yellows, and a warm brown hue. Slobbery tongues sag in crimson streaks from panting faces and eyes as black as coal glimmer beyond chocolate loops which are painstakingly blocked in. Green ascends in long curves and blue showers white as high up as the page will allow.

It’s a field.

A field of dogs.

With a smiley sun crammed into the corner.

Her grin softens, becomes much more natural, less taut against her teeth. She even finds herself resisting the urge to roll her eyes and laugh, _‘Typical.’_

**…**

“We’re going to play a game,” Alana declares. “Do you like games, Will?”

He continues scribbling, keeping his eyes down, hunched over his picture.

“Not really.”

“You’ll like this one,” she promises, pasting on a twitchy smile, “You can talk and draw at the same time, okay, sweetie? So don’t worry about getting preoccupied.” Waiting for a reaction and not getting one, she perseveres, “Um…so it works like this: I’ll say a word, you respond with the first word or two that pops into your head. Easy peasy, right? You up for it?”

Will swings his shoulder in a loose simulation of a shrug. “’Guess.”

“Wonderful,” she claps, eyes squeezing behind her bright beam, “We’ll start with something straightforward, okay? Ready?”

He nods, tongue poking out as he concentrates on colouring inside the lines.

“Okay.” Peeking at his developing picture, her smile becomes a tad more genuine. “…Puppy.”

With a faint smile, Will parrots, “Good boy.”

Alana nods to herself, gauging his response - _body language somewhat more receptive, small smile produced, gripping upper arm with one hand crossed over chest persists, ear tugging demonstrated, still no eye contact_ \- and jotting down some notes.

“Outside.”

“Missing legs.”

Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that, and Alana flinches visibly, before a light tapping on glass reminds her to minimise her emotional investment before it obscures her judgement. The _or else_ is more than implied.

“Uh…the, ah,” she licks her lips, “FBI?”

The crayon in Will’s hand snaps in half.

Purple chips crumble as he relaxes his fist.

“Cold smiles…” he answers flatly, “blank eyes.”

Another pause for the sake of composure.

“Home.”

“Daddy.”

That one, she’s learned to anticipate.

Alana takes a deep breath. “The Ripper?”

Will stills.

“Tummy aches,” he whispers, after a beat or two. His voice cracks. “Empty plates.”

**…**

‘Where is home, Will?’ someone wonders.

He doesn’t know who.

Maybe the question trembles in his gut, maybe it thunders from his tummy, screeching _I’m So Hungry_ , maybe it shouts through the walls of his gullet, hoping to spew from his mouth.

Maybe the questioner is himself.

_‘Where is home, Will? Where is Daddy?’_

The question is confusing. The question doesn’t make sense.

But the answer’s simple.

It’s not the one they want. It’s not what they’d like to hear.

But it’s the only one he knows.

‘Not here.’

**…**

“Jesus, he is one sick bastard. Look at him - kid’s terrified! And it _is_ a kid we’re dealing with. Ain‘t like any thirty-year-old I‘ve ever seen.” Jack roughly scrubs a hand over his forehead. “Christ, he couldn’t even hold a damn glass! Did you see that? How his hand shook? _Jesus_.”

“Jack, you have to calm do-”

 _“Look at him,”_ he hisses, and there is no mercy in his insinuations. “Now, he didn’t get that way for no good reason.”

There’s a pause, and it’s disintegrating denial and wobbly intakes of breaths and cruel realisations all rolled into one.

“Y-you mean, he…he…?”

Jack‘s voice is curt. “Wouldn’t put it past the sicko.”

“Oh, God,” Alana mumbles, then, _“Oh, God._ How are we supposed to - to-”

“I don’t know,” he answers gruffly, shoving his hands into his pockets and expelling an angry breath of his own. “Just…don’t bring it up, got it? Don’t address it, unless he addresses it first. Don’t make any assumptions and _don’t_ freak out. I don’t know if he fully understands what happened and at this point?…I’m afraid to ask.”

**…**

His head is bowed and he’s muttering.

“Daddy, daddy, daddy. Want my Daddy.”

Will’s dog-tired and upset and he’s crying, silent tears coursing down his face, because he misses his Daddy so much. He can’t recall ever being separated from him for so long.

Even when he had clients, it was only an hour or so before Hannibal would peek in the doorway at him in the adjacent room, snoozing in his playpen. He’d always spare a few minutes to make sure that Will was warm and comfortable and that he had everything he needs, before bringing in the next one.

And now the thought that he might never see him again…

It’s intolerable.

“Want Daddy,” he croaks like a broken record, as Alana looks on, utterly stumped.

“Hey, Will? Will, what about your teddy bear? Have you named him yet?”

She plonks the fat bear in front of him, even waves the stubby arms and gives it a rattle. But all attempts to distract him prove futile, because there’s only one thing he wants, and it’s the one thing she can’t give him.

“Daddy….Daddy…”

She has to admire his persistency.

Then, astonishingly, the door opens and Jack walks in, and at his heels, sporting a three-piece suit, paisley tie with a full Windsor knot and iron-pressed shirt, his Daddy comes in, standing there in all of his refined glory.

Will really, really hopes his eyes aren’t playing tricks on him again.

“Daddy!” he cries in relief, head snapping up and a grin lighting up his face.

But the reaction is not at all what he was expecting.

Hannibal jolts as if someone electrocuted him, before shooting a shocked look at Jack and Alana, as if in search of an explanation.

The other occupants of the room appear equally confounded, jaws falling open, and Will only grows more agitated as he _doesn’t come for him_.

“Daddy!” he exclaims, banging his hand on the desk and grunting in frustration. _“Daddy!”_ He’s exhausted and out of sorts and he doesn’t appreciate being ignored when he’s so used to having him come running at his every beck and call.

 _“Dadddyyy,”_ he whines as tears blur his vision.

He makes grabby motions with his hands, but nothing’s working.

Will’s grasping at him and he’s not grasping back, and Hannibal’s looking at Jack, face pained, fumbling like he’s at a complete loss.

His eyes are asking for something - like permission - and whatever he’s looking for, he must find it, because finally Daddy picks him up again. But his hold is clumsy and uncertain, fingers jabbing at Will‘s hip and his other hand gripping under his arm at the strangest of angles, putting an unnecessary strain on the member like he‘s attempting to sever the connection to his shoulder.

There is absolutely no concept of an even distribution of weight at all.

And instead of bringing him towards his chest and rubbing his cheek against his head as Will has come to expect - almost as if he’s marking him - he holds him out and keeps Will at a cautious distance.

For an absurd moment, it strikes Will that he might be afraid of wrinkling his suit. But that’s ridiculous.

Yet, for all of the peculiarity and chaos, he is immensely relieved, and Will gives a triumphant giggle and grins. Reaching out to sleepily knead Hannibal’s jacket, he happily hums, “Mgh…Daddy.” Then, for the sheer heck of it, he feebly knocks against his chest and singsongs, “Daddy, daddy, daddy, daddy.”

Just because he can.

It takes far longer than Will would ever have predicted, but eventually Hannibal relaxes and draws him closer, allowing him to rest his head on his shoulder - where it should have been all along. He maintains his contact with the lapels of his jacket, absentmindedly twisting and toying, as the familiar sensation bumps him further and further towards sleep.

“Dr. Lecter,” Jack‘s accusatory voice shatters the stunned silence, intruding on their - _Will‘s_ \- joyful reunion. “Any idea _why_ Will is calling you that blasted name and currently drooling on your shoulder?”

“I assure you,” Hannibal replies seriously, “I am as stupefied as you are.”

“He _has_ been crying for his Dad ever since he arrived,” Alana points out. “Will wouldn’t - or, more accurately, couldn’t - give a straight answer on the identity of his fixation, and, when pressed, he became extremely distressed. He seemed really mixed up about it.” Crossing her arms, she shakes her head and heaves a sigh. “The Ripper certainly pulled a number on him there; he‘s been completely brainwashed. It is possible that Hannibal‘s arrival is yet another trigger, Jack. Their association was no secret.”

Will pushes his thumb into his mouth and scowls.

They’re talking about him like he’s not even here.

“You think there’s a simpler explanation?” Jack demands, “That The Ripper somehow orchestrated this to throw us off? Or to fuck with Will even further?”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Perhaps he is attaching himself to someone familiar?” Hannibal offers. “A source of comfort and reassurance in an otherwise harrowing time? He may be feeling abandoned by the man he considers a loving caretaker and is latching onto the next available substitute.”

“If it’s a paternal figure he’s after, why not Jack? He‘s been here with him all morning.”

“I can’t answer that. I don’t seek to offend, merely theorise. Though I do wonder if my role as his therapist versus Jack’s as his superior plays a part in Will’s assessment of who is the more viable option for a parent. Jack, I’d venture, has a strict, tough love approach, which has almost certainly been fulfilled before by his captor who is unlikely to be capable of any real display of affection and may have used this as a front. Maybe he is seeking someone with a gentler touch?”

“No offence, doctor,” Jack scoffs, “But you? _Nurturing?_ ”

“I don’t see why not. I‘ve been told I‘m very approachable.”

“There’s a big difference between being approachable and accommodating in your professional field, to acting that way in real life.”

“Do you not believe I demonstrate such traits outside of my work?”

“Not that I’ve ever seen.”

“Alright, alright, you two. That‘s enough,” Alana interjects, placing herself between the two as things start to get a little personal, and, consequently, a little more heated. “Jack,” she says, levelling him a stern look, “Hannibal’s right. He’s an important figure in Will’s life. He was rather admirably initiated into his small circle of friends within a very short space of time and has had a substantial part in his support system-”

“And I haven’t?”

“Not to the same extent.”

Jack frowns, gazing at Will as he nuzzles into Hannibal’s neck with half-mast, bleary eyes. Totally content.

“So you think this is some coping mechanism of Will‘s in his childlike state?”

“Maybe,” Alana hedges.

“Nothing sinister?”

She actually snorts.

“Does it look sinister to you?”

They both glance over to see Hannibal smiling down at Will as he lifts a hand to tiredly touch his face.

“Daddy,” he burbles, whining softly and pushing his face into his Daddy‘s neck again.

Lips press against his hair and a hand cups the back of his head.

And, then, so low it would be impossible for anyone else to overhear, Hannibal whispers, “Shh…darling. Almost there.”

**…**

“I wish to gain full custody.”

Alana’s face immediately contorts. “Hannibal…”

He regards her with quiet scorn. “You question my commitment?”

“No!” she hurries to assure, then grimaces. “…Yes. Don’t take this personally, Dr. Lecter, but I doubt you’ve entirely thought this through. I know this is a trying time. For _all_ of us. And we all want to do everything we can to help Will. But think about what you‘re agreeing to. He’s going to require full-time care.”

His lips thin.

“I am prepared to do whatever it takes to make this right, Alana-”

“Hannibal,” she breaks in, missing the way his eyes dangerously flash and his jaw grits. “Let me stop you right there. You _can’t_ make it right. No-one can. I’m sorry, but Will…He can’t be fixed. I‘m not even sure he’s capable of utilizing the benefits of artificial limbs, at this stage. It might be too late-”

_Too much has been lost._

“-I don’t think he possesses the coherence or strength of mind to adapt to that level of self-sufficiency. It would be too arduous for him. The prospect alone is extremely ambitious. We ought to lower our expectations now, before we are faced with the prospect of disappointment.”

“I will be dealing with a child,” Hannibal translates, pinched brows concealing his internal glee as it boils over in his chest at her account of Will‘s helplessness. “Yes, I gathered as much. It is highly unlikely he will ever regain his prior mental faculties, that much is clear.”

“Will has always been fragile,” Alana sighs, suddenly weary. “Countless expectations for improvement have been placed on him throughout the years - however self-seeking and damn-near accusing they were. The bureau certainly hasn’t been overly sympathetic.”

She hesitates, tossing a worried glance over her shoulder to ensure that Jack is still distracting Will with age-appropriate, watered down tales of all the bad guys they‘ve caught in his absence, evidently not wishing to get caught even remotely criticizing her boss.

As for Jack himself, Hannibal can only catch a glimpse of his back, but from the rigid lines of his spine, he would venture he is profoundly uncomfortable.

_Wonderful._

The more unnerving they find his company, they less time they will actively seek to spend with him. No more than what is socially obligatory, he‘d expect, which will easily work in his favour. It is in their best interests - _both_ of their best interests - that the FBI suspect nothing of Hannibal’s involvement in Will‘s lengthy disappearance.

It would do Will no good to have his Daddy taken from him now.

He would be heartbroken. Distraught. Unlikely to ever bounce back.

He won’t deny how greatly this pleases him.

“But it’s not about slapping on a Band-Aid so that he can continue assisting Jack anymore, Dr. Lecter,” Alana goes on, swallowing weakly. “This isn’t a short-term arrangement, or an attempt to control him or his empathy disorder. Will needs to be cared for. Loved, as he is. No matter how effective his recovery plan, he is never going to return to his previous level of functioning, and it would be cruel to expect otherwise.”

“I am well aware of Will‘s restrictions, Alana,” Hannibal says dryly, “Both mentally and physically. Though I confess, I would like to aid Will in coming to terms with the deeply unfortunate trauma which has been inflicted upon him, my intentions are not, as you say, to ‘fix’ him.”

“Then…” Alana’s eyes narrow and he can‘t tell if she is simply puzzled, or slightly suspicious, “What are they?”

“Will is incredibly dear to me,” he defends, tone earnest and dominated by a steely reserve which he knows will either help or hinder his case, “And I have missed him greatly. The fear that he was lost to us forever has plagued my mind for many months, and his miraculous return comes as such a tremendous relief that I cannot possibly take issue with the state that he has been returned in.”

Feigning a spell of awkwardness at his brutal, uncharacteristic display of emotion, Hannibal smoothes a hand along his tasteful tie and gingerly clears his throat.

“I have always appreciated and accepted Will for who he is,” he mutters, glancing off into where his boy is being poorly entertained by a few underhand card tricks that he sees through in seconds. “This will be no different.”

“Well.” She steps back, half-turning, eyes averted as she scratches the side of her neck, as if she‘s been scolded. “As long as you’re sure…”

“Believe me, Alana. I am sure.”

**…**

Beyond the two-way mirror, Will fidgets in his chair. He’ll need to be changed; and soon.

Watching him, Hannibal grows impatient, and he is eager to whisk his son away from the pitying looks of Alana, Jack and several others, who have come to evaluate him - doctors, specialists, reporters, social workers, psychologists from out of state. A whole crowd of them. _Evaluate,_ he stresses; not gawk. Will shouldn’t be subjected to such stifling sympathy, if he can avoid it, with the foul stench of their kindness clinging to his skin like food that has past its sell-by date. He can feel it, he can smell it. And Hannibal will be damned if he continues experiencing it.

He’s been here for hours, as they poked and prodded, and tried and failed not to stare. His misplaced limbs garnered a great deal of attention. And more than a little gagging.

It irks Hannibal like nothing else. He has only just succeeded in ridding Will of the insecurity and anxiety that arises from time to time at his lose of appendages, and this will only serve to rub salt in the wound…So to speak.

“I’ll take it from here, if you don’t mind,” Hannibal intercepts, as he spies another considerably large group of curious persons and detrimental vultures step off the elevator, ready to descend on his poor boy. “Will has had enough excitement for one day, and it is in my professional opinion that we shield him from both the zealous scavengers and idly curious alike. Before his condition suffers as a result. It will only do more harm than good to continue exposing him so freely. He has seen everyone he needs to see, I believe.”

“I agree,” Alana champions with a grim nod, “It’s important that we give him some space to absorb everything that has transpired over the last few hours, never mind months. He must be so overwhelmed.”

“And you are positive you want to take him on?” Jack probes for the hundredth time, gaze searing on his. If Hannibal had had any doubts, he’d have been running screaming six hours ago. “You’re definitely not going to change your mind? Because I can make alternative arrangements. You’re under no obligations.”

“I want to do this, Jack. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t. I don’t view him as a burden.” And, at that, Jack looks away, as if in shame. “I will gladly see to his every need. However, I ask that you please refrain from approaching Will for the foreseeable future, until I state otherwise.” When they appear startled, he adds more forcefully, “I’m afraid that this is one rule I must insist upon. I would prefer not to disturb Will whilst he is settling in and I fear it will be distressing enough as it is, without the added volatility of visitors. If you have any enquires, please don’t hesitate to call. I will do my utmost to assuage your concerns and update you on the situation regularly. Although that is the most I can offer.”

“I understand, Dr. Lecter.” Jack shakes his hand and casts a worried glance towards Will, exhaling jadedly. It’s nice to see that, despite his poor way of showing it, he truly does care about his former agent. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Again, thank-you for agreeing to this,” Alana utters sincerely. She is both apprehensive and relieved, he is pleased to note. There will be no custody battles here. “I know how difficult this must be for you.”

“It is the least I could do.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” Jack remarks, incredulity and appreciativeness colliding in a huff of laughter. “You’re a good man, Dr. Lecter. Better than most. And a loyal friend, too. Will‘s lucky to have you.”

Hannibal’s lips quirk in an almost-smile.

“I assure you…,” he says, accent thickening, “I’m lucky to have him.”

**…**

After the threat of tears if it wasn’t returned to him, Will proudly presented his picture to Hannibal, who appropriately ooh’s and aww’s, away from the inquisitive gazes of Alana and Jack, who may finally see what they can never unsee.

“You did this? All by yourself?” Hannibal gasps, suitably impressed. Will nods sluggishly into his suit jacket. “This is magnificent, Will. Well done.”

Head slumped on his shoulder, Will’s arms are fastened around his neck as his Daddy rests him on hip, while they walk to the car.

Where, had anyone thought to look, they’d have found a car-seat already installed, to Will’s exact measurements. A coincidence, surely?

He allows a wry laugh to himself.

Even then, Hannibal’s certain the damning evidence could have been explained away. So long as he played it right.

Ignoring the odd looks of passer-by’s as they gape at the pair, Hannibal deftly folds it in half one-handed, knowing that, if left to Will‘s devices, the prized picture would be crushed between their bodies in next to no time.

This one’s for the refrigerator. Call it a souvenir - of the FBI’s stupidity. One for the collection.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“We go home?” Will asks nervously, moistening his bottom lip in guarded hope.

“Soon, my dear. You have my word.”

At the news, he feels Will smile against his collar. The sudden jerk of his torso catches Hannibal by surprise, and he instantly tightens his hold. Tired as he was - approximately three seconds ago - Will is astonishingly wired all of a sudden.

Not to mention, wriggly.

He’s so thrilled to be going back with his Daddy that he twists and jiggles, and takes particular delight in mussing Hannibal’s styled hair, gurgling as the icky, gooey gunk covers his fingers.

He inches his hand towards his mouth, but Daddy tugs it away before he can bite into the waxy flesh, wiping it quickly with a handkerchief he slides out from his inner pocket.

“Careful, puppy. You wouldn’t want Daddy to drop you, would you? That would be a nasty fall.”

“Big, big, _big_ fall and my arm snap off and my skull go _SMASH_. Like this.” He gestures dramatically with his hands, blue eyes alight with mania as he bounces in excitement, looking more geared up than ever.

“Yes, and that would be very, very bad. Wouldn’t it?”

Will giggles. “Brains _everywhere_.”

Au fait with his youngster’s morbid sense of humour, Hannibal merely counters, “I would rather your brains relatively intact, if that is not too much trouble.”

But the point is moot, because before long, Will is being buckled into the passenger side and he’s playing with Hannibal’s tie as he bends over him to insert the seatbelt. Hannibal pops the glove compartment open and fishes around for the spare pacifier he stores there in case of emergency, smiling as Will automatically widens his jaw to accommodate the malleable nipple. The boy gives the article a forceful, experimental suck, then - seemingly satisfied - carries on suckling at a relaxed pace, cheeks hollowing and distending compactly.

Next, he’s bundled in a thick, fluffy blanket that secretes the scent of mixed spices and exotic cologne that he greedily inhales, and Will moulds the material inside his fist, even as it binds his limbs ( _to protect, always to protect, protect Will even from himself_ ), warm and snuggly and happy in his Daddy‘s presence.

Especially as he crouches down, wraps him up in a great, big cuddle, and relinquishes a tender kiss on the top of his head.

Will feels himself tearing up.

“I’m - m’sorry, Daddy.” He rubs his damp face in Hannibal’s neck, searching for the faint pulse along his jugular, letting the steady thudding wash over him.

“It’s okay, puppy,” Daddy murmurs, patting his back, “I know you didn’t mean for this to happen. How could you predict someone would see you? I certainly didn’t. And for that I accept full accountability. You have nothing to apologise for, sweet pea.”

Daddy’s fingers comb through his errant locks, and he doesn’t attempt to tame the wildness, doesn’t unravel each individual curl. Rather, he elegantly navigates around them like they‘re something to be preserved forever. And the pace is just right - not too quick, nor too slow. Just….pleasantly constant. Perfect.

The soothing motions are making him sleepy and he gives a grouchy whine as Hannibal pulls away.

Will lazily lifts his drowsy eyes upwards until they arrive at the glacier, russet brown ones of his father. Those threads of savageness and consumed carnage used to terrify him, but now he’s comforted by them. By the whispers of devilishness that rarely snarl at him - never unprovoked, at any rate. Instead, they sing, they coo, they lull him to sleep with tender lullabies that transcend sin.

He missed these eyes. The eyes that speak only to him.

“D-daddy…you…you ‘way,” Will whimpers intelligibly, “Gone.”

“I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I had to leave you by yourself, I didn’t have a choice. But don’t worry, Daddy’s never leaving you again. You did such a good job. I’m so proud of you. Once Daddy signs those papers, nobody will be able to steal you away from him again.”

“I stay with you?”

“Yes, darling. Of course you will.” Hannibal reaches up to stroke his neck, while Will leans into the touch. His lips slant upwards, edged with notches like the teeth of a saw, a ghost of violence surfacing in the ruthless brown of his irises. “I would never let you stay anywhere else.”

He brushes his hand across his cheek and continues doing so until the darkness slowly recedes from his biting features. Pacified, grounded, by the boy at his side.

“Now sleep, little one.” He playfully boops his nose. “It‘s long past your bedtime.”

Will frowns. “Sleep ‘ere?”

“I think that would be best. Rest, dear Will,” he gently orders. At some point his paci must have fallen out, because Daddy picks it up and pushes it back into his mouth, adamant. “You‘ve had a very eventful day. You’ve earned it.”

“And you stay?”

Hannibal chuckles, “Naturally. Who else would drive the car, little one?”

“Me,” he says, like it’s obvious, stabbing his chest.

Hannibal’s grin widens as he rearranges the blanket around Will‘s shoulders where it had sagged, and carefully smoothes out the crinkles, ever the perfectionist. “I don’t know, sweat pea,” he mutters in amusement, “Aren’t you a little small for that?”

Will sucks on his pacifier, with his brows closely knitted in an intense look of concentration.

“Did…once.”

“Yes,” Hannibal agrees, “But that was a very long time ago. When you weren’t quite so young.”

“But…but, that no sense! Didn’t I’s grow up?”

“Indeed, you did,” he nods and resumes caressing his cheek, “But it was a fluke, dear Will. Do you understand?” His voice hardens, as does his face. “And I very much doubt it will happen again.”

Will juts out his lips. “Why not?”

“Oh, it’s simple, darling.” Evening out his pout with a chiding depression of the thumb, Hannibal pushes another curl out of his eyes and tucks the lock behind his ear, intently surveying his work of genius, before standing and stepping back. “You see, Daddy loves his little boy…just the way he is.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you for reading.


End file.
